


The Point of Snow Days

by sevenimpossiblethings



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Asexual Character, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Hot Chocolate, James Bond References, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 22:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9461984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenimpossiblethings/pseuds/sevenimpossiblethings
Summary: “You know what the problem with Southern California is?” says Eames.“The traffic? The air pollution?” Arthur ventures. “Everyone who lives here?”“The lack of snow days,” says Eames.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Castillon02](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castillon02/gifts).



> This fic is for Castillon02, who, between 2015 and 2016, betaed a whopping 105,396 words of fic for me. That’s an enormous amount of time and energy to devote to someone else’s work, and I’m endlessly grateful. As we were finalizing the ending of a fic this summer, she said, “Maybe your next fic will just be 5k of snuggling.” Challenge accepted—and challenge it was. (Worth it, of course!) 
> 
> Thanks to opalescentgold for generously agreeing to beta this for me. 
> 
> Are there James Bond references in this fic? Yes, yes there are. (Mostly Skyfall, because it’s Castillon’s favorite. I do my research.) All James Bond opinions come from [this post](http://castillon02.tumblr.com/post/155676672227/whats-your-favourite-bond-film) by Castillon.

**February 2017**

Arthur is in that delicious, hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, where his limbs are heavy and he can’t quite tell whether the sunlight is real or a lingering effect of a dream—a real dream—but he recognizes the heaviness of the duvet and the heat of Eames’s body beside him, so it seems unimportant to take that last step into consciousness.

“‘Let’s not and say we did’ is really less rebellious when there’s no one to check or care about whether we did it or not but us,” says Eames. He sounds far too alert, if you ask Arthur.

“Mm,” Arthur says.

Eames falls quiet, but Arthur can sense his wakefulness, even with his eyes shut. Eames slides a hand under Arthur’s t-shirt, thumbing idly at his hipbone. It’s not with intent, Arthur knows now, or at least not the kind of intent his previous bedfellows meant to express with such a touch.

Arthur lets himself be pulled fully awake by the gentle pressure of Eames’s hand, the light, rhythmic sweeping of his thumb across his skin.

“You’re very rebellious,” Arthur offers after another minute. “A true punk. Terrible influence, really.”

Eames huffs a laugh. “Thanks, love.”

“Anytime.”

Arthur stretches out one arm, then settles it comfortably underneath his head. He’s careful not to dislodge Eames’s hand. Eames’s fingers shift a little, brushing along his stomach, almost to his bellybutton. A tingling, fluttery feeling runs up Arthur’s spine.

“You know what the problem with Southern California is?” says Eames.

“The traffic? The air pollution?” Arthur ventures. “Everyone who lives here?”

“The lack of snow days,” says Eames, which was not at all what Arthur was expecting.

“…Oh?” says Arthur.

He grew up with snow days. He’s aware that they’re mostly a disaster, because working parents have to scramble to figure out what to do with their kids when the schools say, _hey, it’s too dangerous for the buses to come get everyone, and you still have to do the homework that was supposed to be assigned today, even though you haven’t been taught the lesson!_

Still. He’s not above saying that he misses snow, living and mostly working in L.A. as they do now. He’ll have to make sure he and Eames get out to Big Bear—or up to Tahoe—to ski this month or next, while there’s still sure to be snow. 

“Yeah,” says Eames. He turns his head toward Arthur but makes no move to lift it off the pillow. “Everyone around here could use a day to not get out of bed. Hot cider, mulled wine…”

“That’s not how I remember snow days,” says Arthur.

He remembers a lot of unsupervised sledding down hills that didn’t have quite enough flat space between the bottom and the road. He remembers wet socks, the way every exhale was trapped, leaving scarves damp with condensation.

“We could fix that,” says Eames, seriously.

“We have meetings today,” Arthur points out.

Because they do.

“ _Meetings_ ,” says Eames. “If I wanted to go to meetings, I’d have become a bloody City boy.”

“If you want to continue to be kept in hot cider and mulled wine…” says Arthur.

“Which we don’t actually have, pet,” Eames points out. “I’m supposed to get up for meetings for the mere possibility of hot cider and mulled wine?”

“That’s generally how it works,” says Arthur.

“Overrated,” says Eames at once. “The entire point of being in dreamshare is so you can ignore all of that ‘generally how it works’ nonsense.”

 

*** 

**March 2015**

“You know what—the entire… en-tire… point is, mm?” Eames asked. His speech was clumsy, and Arthur wished it were because Eames was drunk, because Eames was overtired, but no: their chemist had betrayed them on the last trial run before the extraction. Arthur had caught her adding another solution into the Somnacin after Eames had already gone under, and although Arthur had managed to get them out—Eames out of the dream, both of them out of the building—Eames was still feeling the effects of the drug some hours later.

Eames pitched himself away from the headboard and toward Arthur, his eyes wide and earnest, his pupils blown. The jerky momentum proved too much for him, and he toppled, nose-first, into Arthur’s chest.

Naturally.

“Mmph,” said Eames.

“Yeah,” said Arthur.

He attempted to push Eames off, situate him a respectful foot or two away (again), but Eames was bulky and uncooperative, and the mattress was soft, and Arthur had little leverage and even less actual desire. Also, he was a little afraid that Eames would overbalance in the opposite direction and end up knocking over the glass on the nightstand, which was still half-filled with water, as Arthur had eventually decided Eames needed sleep more than he needed to finish re-hydrating. 

Arthur settled for shifting Eames around, so his nose at least wasn’t squashed against Arthur’s sternum. It sure as hell wasn’t better for _Arthur_ to have the back of Eames’s head resting on his chest, tucked just below Arthur’s chin.

Eames, who had been quiet (if not compliant) during the rearrangement of his limbs, spoke again. “Point,” he insisted. “Darrrrling. Darrthur.”

“That’s… not my name,” Arthur said. “Neither of those are my name.”

“Daaaarrrthur,” said Eames.

“Okay then,” said Arthur. Speaking of points, there was none in arguing. There almost never was, with Eames.

Eames moved, or tried to move, as he still wasn’t really in control of his limbs, and a shoulder bone crashed mercilessly into Arthur.

“Okay,” said Arthur again. “Stop moving, please.”

He pushed Eames back into a more comfortable position (for Arthur), then wrapped his arms around Eames’s stomach like a goddamn seatbelt.

To keep him still, of course. It was surprisingly easy to ignore the thrill of Eames’s weight against his body, in his arms, when Eames’s head was lolling to the side, and that bonelessness was not borne of bliss.

Fucking spineless, greedy, turncoat chemist.

Finally—finally—Arthur had Eames, in bed, and it wasn’t Eames’s choice.

It wasn’t because Eames had wanted it.

It wasn’t because Eames had wanted him.

Eames seemed like the kind of person metaphors should be written about, so Arthur tried to think of a good metaphor for his and Eames’s not-relationship. Eames seemed like the kind of person whose relationships demanded metaphors.

But between Eames and Arthur, Eames was the better one to ask for metaphors, and maybe the fact that they had a not-relationship, instead of a relationship, should have been Arthur’s hint to give up on the metaphor attempt.

The metaphor probably went something like this: their not-relationship was like walking on a tightrope, like walking on the world’s longest tightrope, like walking on a tightrope that had been extended out to infinity courtesy of dream-physics, because they were balancing, carefully wobbling but never falling, and they were both aware of that shifting cord beneath their feet, they could feel the swooping in their stomachs (it was both of them, wasn’t it?), but they didn’t take that step off the edge. Or rather, every time Arthur tried, tilted a little too far in one direction or the other, it was like they were actually trainee tightrope walkers—amateurs—tourists—and they were wearing harnesses that were connected to some other apparatus and Arthur could not push them off the damn tightrope.

It was possible Arthur should have found a different starting image, because the whole point of a tightrope was not to fall off of it, and Arthur was ready to leap.

(It was also possible this was a simile. Arthur had never paid much attention in his high school English classes.)

Eames flirted with him on jobs, sure. Teased him, called him pet names, occasionally and casually brought him tea or stew or, once, Armani slippers.

But Eames never let it get this far—to a bed, that was.

To a shared bed, where Arthur could make out the stubble on Eames’s face, thanks to the moonlight slipping through the cracks in the hotel blinds. 

Eames needled him and waited for him at airport baggage claims—and always, always sent him away in a cab, alone.

And for all those coy glances, all those endearments, Eames never touched Arthur, and he didn’t let Arthur touch him. He hugged extractors he liked and knew well, clapped architects on the back, flopped down on ratty couches next to chemists so their shoulders brushed.

Arthur had had none of that, but now Arthur had this: Eames slumped against him, apparently not at all discomfited by their (extremely) close physical proximity.

But that was probably just the drug.

“Darrrling,” slurred Eames, one of his hands flapping around until it settled on Arthur’s arm.

Eames’s grip wasn’t strong, but the angle was just right for gravity to do the work for him; Arthur’s skin tingled beneath the touch.

“Yes, Eames?” said Arthur.

“Point,” said Eames, emphatically.

“Yes, you might have had one, about fifteen minutes ago,” Arthur agreed.

“Point,” said Eames.

Arthur sighed. “Hey, can you do something for me?”

“Darrrling.”

“Yes, hi, right here,” said Arthur. “You should try to get some sleep, okay? You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Arthur was fairly confident about that.

“You’re here,” Eames said, still in that drugged drawl.

“Still here,” Arthur confirmed. “Which you know, because you’re _on top of me_.”

“I’m… here,” said Eames.

“No thanks to our backstabbing chemist.” Arthur let himself lean forward, the tiniest bit, only enough to let Eames’s hair tickle his nose. He breathed in the scent of Eames’s shampoo, of _Eames_ , who was, as Eames had said, here. He’d live to forge another day. 

“Point.” It was more of an exhalation than a word, Eames’s head turned so Arthur could feel his breath through his shirt.

“Sleep, Eames,” said Arthur. 

Slowly—carefully—and with some difficulty, Arthur maneuvered them so Eames, at least, was mostly lying down. He couldn’t bring himself to shove Eames off, though. It was only cuddling, after all: harmless, often platonic behavior. It wasn’t as if Eames had tried to seduce him.

Arthur should probably have been grateful for the undershirt Eames had been wearing beneath his ill-fitting button-up; that he hadn’t completely stripped a high-off-his-ass Eames would make the next morning less awkward. Or so Arthur hoped.

As it was, the thin material did little to spare Arthur from the sleepy heat of Eames’s body, from the outline of his muscles beneath Arthur’s arms.

_Fuck you_ , he thought at the chemist, not for the first time that day, and not for the last.

Unintentionally, she’d cornered him into getting a peek of everything he wanted, minus the most important part: Eames’s lucid and enthusiastic participation.

Arthur was going to make her life hell, as soon as Eames woke up. As soon as Eames stopped turning his head into Arthur’s chest, his breaths even in sleep at last.

 

“Fucking hell,” said Eames, the next morning. He groaned, rolled over, and froze, evidently realizing with whom he’d been cuddling all night, but didn’t remove Arthur’s arms or shift his legs so his thighs and calves weren’t pressed along Arthur’s. 

“Water and pills on the nightstand,” said Arthur. He kept his voice low but even. 

Arthur folded his arms across his stomach and told himself he didn’t mourn the loss.

“Emiliana?” Eames asked, not moving.

“The very same,” said Arthur.

“And her life will be ruined…?”

“Before you’ve had your first cup of Earl Grey,” Arthur assured him. 

“Acceptable,” said Eames. He lifted his head a little, looking Arthur in the eye for a split second, and then let his head fall back against the pillows, his ear brushing Arthur’s shoulder. “Shit.”

“Emiliana’s the one who’s running,” Arthur said. “We’re safe here for another six hours, minimum. Plenty of time to get on a plane.”

“That wasn’t what I was referring to, love,” said Eames quietly. “But thanks.”

Arthur couldn’t formulate a reply. The next move belonged to Eames. The next move always seemed to belong to Eames.

“I don’t remember most of last night,” Eames began.

“I think you just wanted… a long hug,” Arthur interrupted.

“A long hug?” Eames repeated, smiling a little now. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“A long, partially lying down hug?” Arthur suggested.

Eames laughed. “Oh, Arthur. Oh, darling.”

Another pause.

Eames hadn’t really moved away; Arthur could still feel Eames’s hip, brushing against his as they breathed.

“I meant, I don’t remember all of what I _said_ ,” Eames continued. “And to spare us both the awkwardness of you trying to pretend that you couldn’t understand what my rambling meant, and me trying to pretend that I wouldn’t be horrifically honest while doped up, I’ll say it now, while we’re both awake and of sound mind. Are you of sound mind?”

“Yes,” said Arthur, his voice steady.

“I’m in love with you,” said Eames. He said it calmly, in the same tone that one might use to announce that the water was boiled or the washer was empty.

Arthur swallowed hard. It couldn’t be true, what Eames was saying. Was it a sort of test, to discover what Eames had actually said last night?

God, he wished it were true.

“That… did not come up in conversation,” Arthur forced himself to say.

“Really, now,” said Eames. His tone was decidedly casual, close to bored. “I’m almost disappointed. What, pray tell, did we discuss?”

“It was mostly a lot of you mumbling and me trying to get you to sleep,” said Arthur.

“A worrying lack of specificity there,” said Eames.

“You seemed to think that combining ‘darling’ and ‘Arthur’ into one word was a good idea,” said Arthur.

“Ah,” said Eames. “That’s more like it.” 

Eames didn’t press him further, and Arthur let the silence linger for the space of a few heartbeats. He cleared his throat.

“Other things that did not come up in conversation last night,” he said. Eames could probably feel how tense he was, but there was nothing for it. “I love you, too.”

“I…” Eames’s breath hitched. “I worried about that, sometimes.”

“Worried.”

If Eames was worried, then maybe he hadn’t meant it at all. Maybe he’d only intended to prompt Arthur’s confession.

“I never liked being called a tease,” said Eames, a propos of nothing, as far as Arthur could tell.

“What?”

“I like flirting,” said Eames, as if this was somehow new information for Arthur.

“Yes…”

“I never touched you. So: wasn’t teasing. Not like that,” said Eames.

“I’ve never called you a tease,” said Arthur. He was feeling wrong-footed, and he wasn’t even standing up.

“I don’t like sex, love,” said Eames. “Nothing about it appeals to me.”

_Oh._

“You’re asexual,” said Arthur, and paused long enough for Eames to nod. “You’re asexual, and you thought if—you thought what, exactly?”

Eames shifted onto his side, propped up on one elbow. One of his bare feet was still touching Arthur’s right ankle.

“Tell me,” said Eames. “Do you find me attractive?”

“Yes, of course,” said Arthur, a little helplessly.

“Sexy?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Can you imagine how many people look at me and, with a single glance, imagine I’m fucking a different man every day of the week, and two on Sundays? And how very eager they are to tell me this? How perfect, apparently, every part of my body is, perfectly made for an act that holds no interest to me at all, what a shame it would be if I weren’t _using_ it in that way?” 

Arthur felt nauseous. Of course he could; he’d overheard it often enough on teams, the innuendos, the propositions made by people who didn’t know Eames particularly well. And— _huh_.

“I don’t think that,” he whispered.

“Arthur,” Eames pronounced, “you are very lovely. But I am also aware that your previous relationships included a fair amount of sexual intimacy, and I’m not an idiot.”

“I’m sorry, did you not hear the bit where I’m _in love with you_ ,” said Arthur.

“Did you miss the bit where I’m never going to have sex with you?” countered Eames.

“Jesus Christ,” said Arthur. He hooked his foot around Eames’s ankle. “So about my previous relationships. Yeah, they included sex. They didn’t include _you_.”

“And?”

“ _And_ , if you’re in love with me—and I am definitely in love with you—and the only thing stopping us from getting together is the fact that you think I require sex with my partner—that’s just so stupid.” Arthur winced. “Sorry. I love you. Let’s be together and not have sex. Okay?”

“Come again?”

At any other time, Arthur might have thought this was a double entendre. And maybe it was, but he ignored it and plowed on. There were more important things at stake.

“I had sex with my previous partners because both of us were into it. You’re not into it; I’d like to be with you, if that’s something you want. I’m perfectly capable of getting myself off.”

“But you don’t need to,” said Eames.

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows, confused.

“You’re intelligent and devastatingly attractive. You could go out there and find someone else, find someone who would love to participate in all of your orgasms,” said Eames.

“Why are you trying to talk me out of this? Out of _you_?” asked Arthur, exasperated.

“I want to make sure you know what you’d be missing out on,” said Eames.

“ _Nothing_ ,” said Arthur. “Nothing that important. Maybe sex has just been, I don’t know, way more important to everyone else you’ve ever dated, or thought about dating, than it is to me, but I don’t care. We won’t have sex, okay. I. Still. Love you.”

“You can love someone and know it’s not going to work out, know you’re not meant to be,” said Eames.

“We haven’t even tried,” said Arthur. “We’re worth a shot, aren’t we?”

“I don’t want you to end up resenting me,” said Eames.

“We’re starting down a beautiful road of clear communication, this morning,” said Arthur. “We can keep it up.”

Eames eyed him carefully; an instant later, the muscles around his eyes relaxed, his lips blooming into a smile.

Arthur instantly revised his metaphor (or simile) of their relationship: it was like they’d been in a car, or on a train, and the brakes had been applied, and they’d been leaning forward, and forward, and forward, waiting for that signal that would permit acceleration, waiting to settle back in their seats, together, at last.

“Darling, you missed something last night,” Eames said, and rolled back into Arthur, wrapping an arm around Arthur’s waist, pressing the length of their bodies together.

“What’s that?” 

“The point,” Eames giggled. “Darling point man of mine.”

 

*** 

**February 2017**

Arthur wakes to the sound of rain pinging against the windows.

Sometimes, it turns out, the universe is on your side.

It helps, of course, that Eames’s desire for a snow day came in February, Los Angeles’s wettest month. (And by wettest, Arthur means three inches of rain spread out over 6.5 days, on average. Maybe he should drag Eames to Chicago for a bit: nine inches of _snow_ in an average February, never mind total precipitation.)

Eames is lying on his front, one arm flung out over Arthur’s stomach. Arthur wriggles his hips. Eames opens his eyes without hesitation; he’s been waiting for Arthur to wake up.

“Good morning to you, too,” Eames says, and pokes Arthur in the side.

Arthur glances at the clock; it’s past ten already. But they don’t have regular jobs, so what does it matter, really?

“I didn’t even tell you this part, and we’re already doing it right,” Arthur says.

“What’s that?” Eames asks.

His hand runs over Arthur’s bare chest, fluttering up to his collarbone, now down his breastbone again. Eames likes this, Arthur knows, the touching.

“When you know there’s going to be a snow day, you sleep in,” Arthur says. “And if you don’t, and it’s just a cold day, or an ice day, and there isn’t any decent snow, then you go back to bed.”

Eames glances out the window.

“I don’t mean to dispute you, sweetheart, but I think that’s just rain. And not even all those in-between permutations you lot are so obsessed with,” says Eames.

“Freezing rain. Sleet,” Arthur says, over-enunciating each word as if they’re sensuous or scandalous, as opposed to driving hazards. 

“Mm.”

One of Eames’s feet brushes against Arthur’s. Eames’s toes are cold, and Arthur lightly kicks him away, even as he curls closer into Eames’s arms.

“Eames,” Arthur prods. “You’re missing the point.”

Eames raises his eyebrows, grinning. “Oh?”

“We’re having a snow day. Because we’re adults with ridiculous, irregular jobs and we do what we want.”

Eames laughs and ducks forward to kiss Arthur’s jaw. “You. Are. Delightful.”

“I try,” says Arthur, honestly. He wouldn’t for anyone else, but he knows Eames needs a burst of whimsy every once in awhile.

“And what is this snow day going to involve, given that there isn’t actually any snow? Unless you mean for us to dream…?”

“No.” Arthur shakes his head. “We’re doing this for real, and at home, as snow days are meant to be done. I’ve cued up your favorite Bond films, and there’s hot cider we can make later, but first hot chocolate, because you can’t have a snow day without hot chocolate.”

He knows he’s basically describing any random Thursday afternoon with them, but this is Thursday afternoon with _intent_ (and starting on a Monday morning).

“I bow to your superior knowledge,” says Eames.

“Meet me in the living room,” Arthur instructs.

“Copy that,” says Eames.

Twenty minutes later, they’re settled on the couch. Arthur is leaning against Eames’s chest, a throw blanket tossed over their legs and another wrapped around their shoulders. 

“I thought we could work our way backwards through our favorites,” Arthur says, as _Skyfall_ begins to play on the (frankly enormous) TV.

“Fine by me,” says Eames. With the arm not wrapped around Arthur’s waist, he reaches for the mug of hot chocolate on the table beside the couch and takes a sip. “ _Darling_ ,” he moans. “What is in this? There is no way this is the hot chocolate you had growing up.” 

“No,” says Arthur, smugly. “There are only six people in the world with this particular recipe.”

“My dearest, I say this with all the affection in the world, but you’re an abysmal cook, so…”

“Ariadne invented it,” Arthur admits. “The trick is in the spice combination and ratios.”

Eames takes another sip. “Cinnamon, nutmeg… some vanilla? The rest I can’t make out.”

“I’d tell you, but then…” says Arthur, picking up his own mug.

“Guess I’ll have to keep you around, then,” says Eames.

“Guess you will,” says Arthur. He settles back a little deeper into Eames’s embrace.

Eames runs his fingers through Arthur’s hair, unstyled in deference to their snow day. He alternates slight pressure with light scratching, and Arthur tilts his head to give Eames better access to the nape of his neck. If Arthur were a cat, he thinks, his tail would be swishing contentedly; as it is, his toes are curling in their fuzzy slippers.

In between _Skyfall_ and _Casino Royale_ , Arthur breaks out the cashews.

He bought a new jar specifically for this occasion, but now, sitting on the couch with the jar gripped between his knees, the lid won’t—fucking—come—off.

“I should have gone the full chestnuts-on-an-open-fire route,” Arthur complains. “That would have been simpler.”

“Than buying a jar of cashews?” Eames asks, his tone amused.

“It won’t open,” Arthur whines.

“Of course it will,” says Eames, running a comforting hand along Arthur’s back. “Put your back into it.”

“Oh, fuck you,” says Arthur, and wrenches the lid off.

“There we go,” says Eames.

Arthur grabs a couple of nuts from the jar, slipping one between Eames’s lips and popping the rest into his own mouth.

Eames settles the cashew jar next to them on the couch, then tugs Arthur into his lap.

“Come here, you,” he says, nuzzling at Arthur’s neck.

“I’m here, you,” says Arthur.

He twists and pecks Eames on the lips.

“You’re missing Daniel Craig,” Eames informs him.

“Daniel who?” says Arthur. He kisses Eames again for good measure before turning around to face the screen.

They watch in silence for a few minutes. Eames’s hands slip under Arthur’s t-shirt, resting on Arthur’s waist. Arthur doesn’t think anything of it—until Eames begins to tickle him.

Arthur’s legs kick out instinctively, and he tries to squirm away, but between the blanket and Eames’s dual assault, he only ends up pulling both of them to the ground in a tangled _thump_ of limbs.

“Ow,” says Arthur, as Eames is now lying entirely on top of him.

“That was not the most dignified tickle-exit,” Eames says. He moves his legs on either side of Arthur, boxing him in but taking the strain of his weight off of Arthur’s chest.

“ _Tickle-exit_?” says Arthur. He slips a hand between them and pokes Eames’s stomach.

“You’re going to make me miss the poker tournament,” says Eames.

Arthur cranes his neck around to look at the screen. “No I’m not, there’s lots of time before that. It’d be your own fault, anyway.”

“You’re the one who wouldn’t stay still,” Eames says.

“So much for my promising career in dignified tickle-exits,” says Arthur, his voice dry. 

“You have other talents,” says Eames.

“I’m aware.”

Arthur laces his fingers behind his head, resting his arms on the soft carpet. Eames is still balanced above him, their chests touching as they breathe. Eames thumbs at the side of Arthur’s mouth, drawing out his dimples, before lowering his head to give him a fleeting kiss. 

“Shall we watch some poker now, love?” he says.

“I thought you’d never ask,” says Arthur.

By the time Arthur presses ‘play’ on _A View to a Kill_ , it’s late afternoon, and they’re both stretched out on the couch, Eames leaning against the back cushions and Arthur leaning against Eames.

“How do I keep forgetting that Roger Moore is ancient in this one?” Arthur muses.

“Suddenly fifty-eight is ‘ancient’?” Eames says. “It’s not even retirement age.”

“But for a double-0?”

“You don’t think you’ll still be the most dangerous man in dreamshare at fifty-eight?”

“If, when I am fifty-eight, I decide to go up against rogue Russian agents, it’s not going to involve escaping exploding oil rigs, or mooring airships to the Golden Gate Bridge. And it’s definitely not going to end in me receiving the Order of Lenin, what the fuck,” says Arthur.

“You’re such an espionage snob.” Eames rewards him with a kiss on the top of his head.

“Ariadne’s mad at us for having a snow day without her, by the way,” Arthur says. He gropes around for a throw pillow and situates it beneath his head.

“Isn’t she in Oslo right now?”

“Yeah, but she doesn’t think anybody should be allowed to watch _A View to a Kill_ without her. She doesn’t think it can be fully appreciated without her commentary on Grace Jones’s May Day.”

“Well, you didn’t have to _tell_ her,” says Eames.

“She gave us her hot chocolate recipe, and she wanted to know what we were going to watch.”

“You could have left it at ‘Bond films.’”

“The lack of detail would have made her suspicious,” says Arthur.

“She is very nosy,” Eames agrees. He presses his nose into Arthur’s neck, and Arthur startles.

“Hey, cold,” he complains.

“Snow day,” Eames says.

“Fake snow day. Los Angeles snow day,” says Arthur.

“We must grab onto every scrap of authenticity available to us,” Eames insists, and rubs his nose along Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Or we can practice snow days selectively, and pick out the bits we like and leave out the rest.”

“You’re so practical, darling,” says Eames. “Although that’s very irreverent of you, and you should be ashamed of yourself.” He nibbles on Arthur’s ear.

In retaliation, Arthur pinches the arm Eames has tucked over his hips.

On screen, May Day assassinates a second character.

It’s maybe not what Arthur’s sixteen-year-old self would have predicted his future snow days to be like, but as it turns out, Arthur doesn’t need his sixteen-year-old self’s approval. His teenage self didn’t know everything, couldn’t know everything. He didn’t know about dreamshare; he didn’t know about Eames. He didn’t understand the different types of want and need that have nothing at all to do with wishing for parental approval or money for new winter boots. How could he have?

Arthur now has an apartment in a neighborhood where he and Eames are probably the only gun owners. They can turn the heating on whenever they want in the fall—although there are only occasional “winter” nights that they need to—and run the AC all summer. Arthur can buy fancy chocolate for cocoa and high quality hot cider, simply because he feels like it. Because he thinks his boyfriend might like it.

The boyfriend wouldn’t have been a surprise to his teenage self. Eames would have been, though. Who could predict Eames? It’s hard to know to want things—people—you don’t realize the world has been brilliant enough to create. Arthur isn’t going to settle for fulfilling some wish list he made before he knew all of the options.

It turns out the best option—and not simply the best option out of shitty choices, but a truly fantastic, not-in-his-wildest-dreams option—is not having sex with his fantastic boyfriend. Arthur’s long ago made his peace with that.

There’s still Eames, and cuddles, and scatterings of PG-rated kisses.

“I can tell you’re not paying attention,” Eames whispers in his ear. “What could possibly be more riveting than a plot to destroy Silicon Valley?”

“Debating whether or not I should send Emiliana some flowers,” Arthur says.

“The chemist who tried to sabotage us, two years ago?”

“Poisonous flowers,” Arthur says. “A really mild poison, though.”

“Because you think we owe her,” says Eames.

“I did completely destroy her reputation,” says Arthur. “And yet…”

“You would have figured it out eventually,” says Eames. “That I wasn’t having sex, at least. I was counting on that, actually: that you’d figure it out, and stop flirting back.”

“That was a stupid plan,” says Arthur.

He fumbles for the remote, freezing the screen on a particularly malevolent shot of Zorin. Arthur flips around to face Eames, who adjusts his arm, his hand now resting on the small of Arthur’s back.

“I was being practical,” says Eames.

“I thought we agreed to leave the practicality to me?” says Arthur.

“Now we do, darling.” 

“So, mildly poisonous flowers?” Arthur asks.

“Oh, I don’t know, love. People don’t really go in for that anymore.” Eames brushes a loose strand of hair off of Arthur’s forehead. “She’s not important.”

“She drugged you.”

“And I decided to tell you I loved you,” says Eames. “That’s the important part.”

“That’s the point?” Arthur suggests. 

“Exactly,” Eames beams. “Darrrthur.” 


End file.
